


I'm Sorry

by TamarElmensdorp



Category: Muse (Band)
Genre: Angst, Homophobia, M/M, Regret, Running Away
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-19
Updated: 2017-12-19
Packaged: 2019-02-17 04:24:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13069077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TamarElmensdorp/pseuds/TamarElmensdorp
Summary: When regret follows a series of other emotions.





	I'm Sorry

**Author's Note:**

> I'm extremely worried no one will like this story because it's so different, but it felt so good to write. I can only hope you won't be offended or disappointed by it.

Regret. 

It’s not what I felt when Matt didn’t come down from his room that morning. We had a big fight the night before. He told me he was gay, and I yelled ‘no son of mine is gay’ at him. At first he screamed back at me, but after a while he was just a crying mess. I kept yelling he wasn’t my son anymore, though. Then I left the house; slamming the door behind me. Matt lay crying on the floor of the kitchen, a hopeless, little puddle of misery.

Regret.

It’s not what I felt when I stormed up to his room that morning. He was going to be late for school, and no son of mine was ever late for anything. And I wasn’t going to cut him any slack because he turned out to be a blubbering crybaby.

Rage.

That was what I felt. My son, ‘the godforsaken gay kid’, had the nerve to stay in bed and embarrass me by coming late for school? Not in my lifetime. Oh no. I was going to drag him out of bed by his hair if I had to. 

I don’t know what I felt when I found his room empty, his bed unslept in. Probably still rage. I felt a lot of that those days. Maybe that was because of the divorce. Or because of the drinking I did because of that. And now I had to take care of gay Matt. Why couldn’t he stay with his mother, like Paul? Or better yet, why couldn’t he just be normal?

Concerned.

It’s not what I felt when he was still not there when I came home after work that evening. It wasn’t rage anymore either. I felt annoyed. Who did he think he was? I was working my arse off to provide for him, and he just didn’t feel like showing up and, at least, doing his share of the house work.

Just before I went to bed, I called his cell phone. He didn’t answer. I yelled at his voicemail that he should get his arse back home ASAP, or else. I hadn’t planned yet what the ‘or else’ would be, but he could be sure he wouldn’t like it.

When his room was still empty the next morning, I figured I should call his mother. He probably had gone to her home. Crying to his mummy, the little shit. Turned out, he wasn’t there, and she hadn’t heard from him either. She got a little concerned, and a little angry at me. At me, for god’s sake! Like I had done something to make him disappear, or something.

The next couple of days, he still didn’t come home. I called his cell several times, as did his mother and his brother. He answered to no one. I think that by then, I did grow a little concerned. I was still pissed at him too, though. Leaving like that, without even a note or a call to tell us where he was going.

By the end of the second week of his disappearance, I had to deal with the very unpleasant side issue of having his mother on the phone every day, either screaming or crying. Like I could somehow magic him back home. She also kept accusing me of having done something. I couldn’t think of what that could be. Yes, I was thick as a brick back then, never thinking that my not accepting his gayness might have something to do with it.

But to put an end to the relentless allegations, I asked a tech wise college of mine if he could think of some way to trace him. He couldn’t hack his phone, but he could hack his iCloud. Turned out Matt had forgotten that his pictures were automatically uploaded. 

He had forgotten, or maybe he was taunting us. We found pictures of him and some blond boy. There were a lot of pictures of that boy. He must be the reason he turned gay. I hated him on the spot. The pictures weren’t geotagged. So they gave no clue as to where he, they, could be. 

Yes, it seemed that Matt and the blond guy were traveling together. Either the blond guy had run away too, or maybe he had had the decency to still talk to his parents. Of course, the pictures didn’t show that. What they did show was that they were definitely not staying in one place.

Weeks went by. Pictures kept showing up. None of them had recognisable landmarks. We had no idea where he could be, or who the boy was. The pictures, nevertheless, gave us some comfort. Yes, I admit, by now, I was feeling something else than anger or annoyance. Not really sure what I felt. It wasn’t concern. I saw he was doing okay. And he looked happy. Such a different image from when I last saw him, so full of misery and pain.

He also looked healthy. No idea how they got the money to buy food, or seek shelter. His bank account stayed untouched. Either the blond guy had some money, or they must have been doing some odd jobs here and there. But at fifteen, most legal businesses wouldn’t hire him.

A pang of concern.

What if he sold his body? What if he had sex with dirty old men? But the pictures showed a happy boy. Would he look so happy if he had to do that? Maybe he would. Maybe that was worth it for him to be with the person he loved. The person he loved; a blond boy. Not his father. Nor his mother or brother. But some blond kid we didn’t even know the name of.

I never told his mother about my concerns of Matt having to prostitute himself. I did set up an automatic monthly transfer to his account, though. Just to make sure he would never have to do that. I called his cell, which luckily still worked, and told his voicemail about the money. That he didn’t have to worry about that. And would he, please, look after himself. The money was never touched.

The weeks turned into months, even years, and the pictures came less and less frequent. By now I had the feeling that he knew the pictures were uploaded to his iCloud. He must have made them on purpose. To send us a message. To tell us he didn’t need us. A big fuck you, dad.

That realisation broke my heart. And I had broken his at the tender age of fifteen. I had told him he couldn’t be who he was. That he was not acceptable. That I couldn’t accept him. I told him he wasn’t my son anymore. That I didn’t love him. I drove him away. It had all been my fault.

After that, I filled his voicemail with hours of I’m sorry’s, and please come home’s. Forgive me. I was a fool. I love you, son. I love you. But none of it made him answer my calls. If anything, it had the opposite effect. Pictures stopped showing up in his cloud altogether, until finally, the number was disconnected.

Regret.

Yes, that’s what I feel now. But it’s too late. Much too late. I have no way of knowing where my beautiful son is, or how he’s doing. No way of contacting him. No way of knowing if he’s still as happy as he was in those first pictures I saw.

Dear Matt, I know you will probably never forgive me. I will never forgive myself either. I’m not asking that of you. I put you through hell. The one person who should have been there for you, who should have been on your side, rejected you. I am so, so sorry I was that person. I’m so sorry I drove you away. I’m sorry I didn’t provide a safe environment for you to grow up in.

I hope the journey I forced you on, was a good one. I hope you’re okay. I hope you’re happy. And I hope that somehow you know that I love you. After all the things I said, and all the hurt I caused, I love you and I miss you.

Regret.

It’s all I feel. All that is left.

I’m sorry, son. I love you.

I’m sorry.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Tea Party Challenge at MS on Dreamwidth where I came third in the challenge, I guess my worries were ungrounded. Thank all readers who voted for it. It means a lot to me.


End file.
